


The Full Monty

by magpie_fngrl



Series: Arthur and the Lust Leaks [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Humor, M/M, Nude Modeling, Office Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 15:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: Harry poses for a naked Auror calendar and Draco goes batshit crazy with lust.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: ["Костюм Адама"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806133) by [Slavyanka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slavyanka/pseuds/Slavyanka)



> xErised, as soon as I saw your prompt, I knew I had to write it. I hope you liked what I did with it!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, [fearlessinspirit](http://fearlessinspirit.tumblr.com//) and CallisaRose. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if there's something in the plot/story that confused or jarred with you. I'm happy to discuss things like that with readers :)

**November**

**Bertrand Baggins - Aotea’s photography studio**

 

Harry tells himself he’s doing this for charity.

He’s not doing it because Robards asked him to, or because Ginny bet he wouldn’t, or because deep down he finds the idea strangely liberating, and he’s _definitely_ not doing it for the unlikely attention of buttoned-up, ponytailed ponces who work in the Ministry.

No. He’s doing it for _charity_.

If it was up to Harry, this mad scheme would never see the light of day, but he couldn’t have foreseen the enthusiasm running like wildfire through the department, making everyone take leave of their senses. Robards is inordinately excited about getting his kit off for a seventy-five-year old wizard and Ron is even _worse_ , thrilled to bits about the Department’s new and totally daft idea. _We only live once_ , Ron says in-between crunch-ups on the floor by his cubicle and Harry can’t even respond with the ‘what will your girlfriend say about you posing in the buff’ argument since it was her bloody idea in the first place.

At the time, having a free bar at the Halloween Ministry staff party sounded like a great idea, but now Harry isn’t so sure because the combination of unlimited wine + Hermione’s brain + problem = a completely barmy idea that has led to him posing for the very first, naked Auror calendar. He should’ve paid more attention to Hermione’s thoughtful nods when the chairwoman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors lamented the diminishing funds available for the orphans and the disenfranchised kids of the formerly Wandless and Robards promised ‘anything we can do to help’. Unfortunately, Harry had been distracted by the sight of a smug Malfoy showing off his latest squeeze, a Quidditch player of some renown; as if that was an _achievement_ , banging a Quidditch player. Harry had dated athletes in the past, but he'd never _paraded_ them in public like Malfoy did, touching their wrist or laughing at their stupid jokes in front of _everyone_.

“That Hermione has the best ideas, right, my boy?” A clearly tipsy Robards had patted Harry on the back a little too hard, making him choke on his wine.

Harry had no idea what Hermione’s suggestion had been, but he dragged his eyes from Malfoy’s face and agreed with Robards out of loyalty to his friend, but now, standing in front of a stranger’s camera with his thigh wand holster and _nothing else on_ , he wishes he was less loyal and more adamant about this being the most idiotic idea ever to be uttered inside the Ministry.

“A little to the left,” Bertrand instructs.

Harry poses sideways to the lens, holding handcuffs, and moves his hip forward to cover his junk. At least he _hopes_ it covers his junk. Ron stands beside him, brandishing his wand, both of them posing as if they’re running towards a Dark Wizard. It’s slightly draughty in the studio and there are more assistants milling around than he’d like, as well as the rest of the male Aurors who’ll take part in this insanity, drinking beer and making nearly enough noise to cover their nerves. The female Aurors’ photoshoot was yesterday and when Harry asked Ethel, one of the more private members of the team, how she coped, she said she’d imagined the photographer was someone else. Now Harry tries to think of someone but all his brain supplies him with is Malfoy’s sharp indifference every time they run into each other.

“Nice, Harry!” the photographer says as the shutter clicks non-stop. “I like this fierce expression. Ron, that’s great, too.”

Harry glances sideways at Ron and sees him glaring off camera, chest puffed out, knuckles white on his wand, as if a showdown is about to take place: Weasley vs Voldemort or some sort. Harry almost lets out a snort.

Eventually Bertrand seems happy with his shots, but the ordeal is far from over, because both he and Ron will have to pose separately as well, their celebrity status warranting a month all their own. Harry clutches a cloak around his waist as an assistant rubs oil on his limbs before another hands him a standard issue Auror broomstick and pulls the cloak from his white-knuckled grip.

“You look fetching,” Ron laughs, holding a beer, as yet another assistant applies fake grease patches on Harry’s face, forearms and thighs.

“Don’t mock or I’ll rub myself all over you,” Harry promises.

“I can already see the headlines: The Boy Who Gleamed,” Ron chuckles.

Harry flips him, but then snorts a laugh too. “The _Polished_ One.”

“The Glosser.”

“What’s that supposed to be?” Harry frowns.

Ron shrugs. “Like the Saviour? Yeah, that was rubbish.”

Harry can’t wait to get back into his clothes and join the rest of the Aurors who are treating this as a party. There’s drinking and teasing and a jovial atmosphere all round and Harry’s sure he’ll see the fun aspect of it once fully dressed, but Bertrand calls him back in front of the camera and, once again, his nerves remind him he’s starkers with only a broomstick to cover his privates. His mind returns once again to thoughts of who is going to see this calendar — _everyone_ — and for a moment he wants to jump on the broomstick and fly out of the studio, but he’s nothing if not a Gryffindor.

“Eyes to the camera, Harry,” the photographer says and Harry turns slightly sideways and looks up, as if someone startled him in the middle of oiling his broomstick, which he never does naked and covered in grease, but anyway.

“Pretend I’m someone you fancy,” Bertrand instructs.

Harry isn’t dating anyone right now; he can’t think of anyone he fancies — well, he can think of _one_ —

“That’s it, so _passionate_ , hold that look.”

 

**December**

**DMLE Offices**

**Monday**

  
  Draco spits his coffee in the most unbecoming fashion.

Of course _he_ ’s not to blame for this momentary lapse in manners and grace. No, as always the blame lies on his former nemesis and current occasional work associate, whose picture is now hanging on the wall opposite his secretary’s desk, even though it isn’t _July_ for crying out loud, it’s still December, but there he is — the Chosen One, butt naked, eyes blazing towards the camera, covered in _oil and grease_ , and what’s worse, Draco feels the beginning of a most inconvenient pressure in his trousers.

“What in Salazar’s name is _that_?” he points at the offensive item, and she chirps, “The Auror calendar, what else? Just out today.”

Ah yes, he’d forgotten about the Aurors’ new madness — in fact, he was convinced it’d never bear fruit, but fruit it bore and now it is hanging on the wall of his bloody office.

“I can see it’s a calendar, but why are we looking at _July_?” he insists.

“Well…” Daphne shrugs and Draco doesn’t need her to continue, not really. Because _Potter_ is July, a month that Draco will forever associate with this image now. He gazes at the picture for a moment longer and feels the pressure in his trousers intensify, something he really doesn’t need this early in the morning at work, nope, _down_ boy.

The boy doesn’t listen.

“I think you should remove it,” he says, trying to assert some sort of control over his treacherous body, but he’s reminded why you should never hire a former schoolmate to work for you, especially one who shared a dorm with Pansy for years.

“What’s wrong, Draco? Potter looking a little too nice over there?” Daphne says with a knowing smile and Draco is tempted to Obliviate her memory of all their school years together.

“I simply find it inappropriate for the Prosecutor’s office.”

“Mr Gruger asked me to hang it up, if you must know,” she nods towards the door of his boss and smiles victoriously. Draco is certain his boss didn’t ask for _July_ to be displayed on his wall so brazenly and so _wantonly_ —

Daphne is still talking and with an effort he manages to catch what she’s saying. “…charity… every office has one… good cause.”

Recognising defeat, Draco Scourgifies the spilled coffee from his robes, returns to his office, shuts the door behind him and grabs his paperwork like a lifeline. Anything to avoid thinking of the picture of naked Potter and his tanned skin (really, where did he get a tan in mid-winter?) and the spattering of tiny moles that a finger could trace into constellations—

No, no, _no_. This won’t do. Draco casts his mind to something else, _anything_ , and lands on a lecture at the convention he attended in Plymouth: ‘The Role of Prosecution in the Post-War Society’, given by a lecturer as scintillating as Professor Binns. The thought of Professor Binns always helps to will his erection down, nothing like his droning voice to suppress any hint of libido, but that’s when he notices that he’s accidentally transfigured his coffee cup into a cactus.

Damn _Potter_. Puberty is _behind_ him, for Merlin’s sake, but here he is, having _lust leaks_ again, the blight of teenagers, the magic that spills when a person is terribly, uncontrollably horny. There was a time in Year Five that not a morning dawned in their dormitory without a pillow having turned into a balloon during the night or vines growing around someone's bed. Draco woke up in red and gold sheets so often that he took to setting an alarm so that he could change them back to emerald before his roommates noticed, lest they assume he lusted after a _Gryffindor_. Once, after what must have been a particularly vivid dream, Nott found his bed stuck to the ceiling, and when Blaise fell madly for that fourth-year Ravenclaw with the smart mouth and long raven hair, everything he touched grew wings and flew.

With some effort, Draco’s blood cools down and he opens the folder of his latest case with a sigh of relief. He’s not sixteen anymore, having uncontrollable erections that keep popping up when he least wants them, no, he’s _twenty-two_ , a barrister assisting the Prosecutor, and fresh out of a fling with a dark-haired Chaser with a cute smile and strong thighs, not unlike Potter’s—

He drops his head on the desk. Perhaps he should take a personal day, Apparate to a snowy mountain and let the cold do its job because, apparently, nothing else can. However, he reminds himself that he’s _Draco Malfoy_ with a reputation for keeping his cool and he gives the task in front of him another go. It’s a tricky case, Sacrecour having already escaped prosecution once because of the mishandling of his first arrest.

It’s past noon when he exits his office, informs Daphne that he’s heading out to lunch, his eyes anywhere but on that particular wall, and visits Diagon Alley. It’s a crisp winter day and he welcomes the cold air on his face. He decides a pub lunch in the Leaky is in order and strolls down the street, pausing at the apothecary’s to make some purchases, before he passes outside Flourish and Blotts and freezes.

The whole shop window is devoted to this infernal calendar, with four magnified pictures of members of the Auror team: Potter, Weasley, a witch whose name escapes him right now, and Ethel Burke, a fourth cousin once removed if he remembers Nature’s Nobility correctly. In large letters under the pictures the inscription says: _Perfect Christmas present! Only five galleons! All proceeds go to the Hogwarts Fund for Children In Need._

Potter’s blown up picture makes him almost life-sized and that is the _worst_. He holds the broomstick with a powerful grip and it’s all Draco can do not to imagine — _nope_ , scratch that, he’s imagining it, he’s standing right in the middle of a busy Diagon Alley and all he can see is Potter looking like the greasy mechanic of the filthiest fantasy ever to be conceived, gripping Draco’s cock with those firm hands and whispering about how he wouldn’t say no to a ride.

Draco’s mouth is dry and he’s grateful that his robes are covering yet another boner. This is the worst Monday ever to Monday and he’s half decided to call in sick and hide under a cold shower for the rest of the day, but the trial is next week and he needs to make sure everything is in order. It’s a big case with heavy involvement from the Aurors and a lot of public interest, so he skips the pub lunch for a sandwich, thinks of Professor Binns describing the Ministry elections of 1849 for a good ten minutes, and returns to his office — after purchasing the Auror calendar and having it sent home.

It’s for charity after all.

 

The day is almost over, _thank_ _Salazar_ , and Draco is ready to escape to his home and the promise of a quiet meal and some time to ~~peruse the calendar~~ use his new ingredients to perfect the potion he’s working on, when Daphne knocks on his door.

“Someone to see you, Draco,” she says.

“It’s _Sir_ in front of clients,” he reminds her, but pauses and peers at her. Underneath her bored tone, she’s clearly flustered and the gleam in her eyes almost scares him.

“Who is it?” he asks slowly.

“Harry Potter from the Aurors,” she says, a little breathlessly, and Draco’s insides freeze and then heat up in the most disconcerting way possible. _Fuck_. Fuck the fucking fuck of fuckity fucks.

“What does he want?” he hisses. He tries to keep his voice low in case he can get away with not being here.

“It’s for the Sacrecour case.”

“Send him to Mr Gruger.”

“Mr Gruger went home.”

There’s no escaping it. Draco steels himself. He’s a powerful Occlumens and can push his feelings underneath a cool, collected exterior. Yes, that is what he’ll do. He motions to Daphne to let Potter in and a moment later he appears in his doorway.

For a brief, dizzying moment, Draco sees the image of the greasy naked man with the sinuous limbs, the chest hair, the glistening skin superimposed onto the regular Auror Potter, who’s sporting messy hair and scruffy trainers, looking tantalisingly approachable. The contrast between reality and fantasy makes Draco’s pulse race and he rubs his palms on his trousers.

“Potter,” he says, his accent even more pronounced with the effort of maintaining his cool.

“Malfoy. Nice cactus.”

Draco pushes the incriminating plant further away. “What can I do to — ahem, for you?” He hasn’t offered a seat, but Potter, entitled bastard that he is, takes one anyway.

“My office wants to go through your notes before the trial.”

“They could’ve sent a memo, not the Chosen One himself.”

Potter ignores Draco’s tone. “Robards also wants — well, seeing as I’ll have to testify, he wants you to help me. So I won’t—”

“Fuck it up again?” Draco offers.

Harry presses his lips. “Yes.”

“Gruger is more experienced. Why did Robards suggest me?” Draco knows the answer, but he wants to hear Potter say it.

Potter squirms and where in the past Draco might have gloated at his obvious discomfort, now he feels something entirely different. “Because you’re a cold hearted bastard,” Potter says in the end.

“Are those his exact words? I _will_ ask him.”

Potter’s colour is rising. “ _Ask_ him. He said, ‘Get that cold hearted bastard to coach you because—’”

“Because?”

“‘Because he’s the best and the only one who can sort you out,’” Potter grits out.

Draco grins, all teeth, and leans back in his chair, trying to stop his mind from coming up with inventive ways to ‘sort out Potter’. Every defense lawyer in the country knows that Potter has a problem with keeping a lid on his temper. Everyone also knows that Draco _never_ loses his cool, even when his Dark Mark is brought up in trials, or when other Ministry workers needle him with mentions of his father. Draco has proven his loyalties a hundred times over with numerous convictions of Death Eater allies and even by locking horns with his father once over a Wizengamot edict to abolish a piece of pureblood legislation, but he doesn’t lose his cool at people making insinuations. No, Draco simply slays them with a well-chosen word and a smile that cuts like broken glass. Not much can make Draco lose his composure — except perhaps for the person who’s now sitting opposite him, his red uniform doing delightful things for his complexion.

“So? Shall we start?” Potter says.

 _You couldn’t have picked a worse day_ , Draco thinks. He says, “Now? It’s gone past five o'clock, Potter. I’m done for the day.”

Just at that moment, Daphne knocks again. “If you don’t need me anymore, _Sir_ — my sister is waiting for me…”

“Of course, Daphne, you may go.”

The door closes and he turns to Potter, trying hard not to think about how they’re now completely alone in the office, and failing. Sweat trickles down his back. Draco scuffs the floor with the tip of his shoe and is horrified to see that a square of wood under his desk is slowly transfiguring into a shagpile. He clenches his fists as if that’ll prevent any further lust leaks.

“Oh,” Potter says eloquently when Daphne leaves. “My schedule is so erratic, I never know what time it is. Can’t I keep you a little bit longer tonight?” He gives him a direct look that makes Draco almost blurt out, _you can if you bend over the desk and let me plough that arse._

Potter’s still looking at him and Draco shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak just now. The tent in his trousers is reaching epic proportions, his skin is burning and somehow also shivering, and the shagpile has now covered the whole surface under his desk and is expanding.

“Some of us worked day and night for this arrest,” Potter continues, indignant. “The least you could do is give me half an hour of your evening.”

“I’ve got prior engagements tonight,” Draco says in a tight voice, because he simply doesn’t trust himself alone with Potter today.

“Of course, let’s not keep your boyfriends waiting.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I assure you I’m a one-man-at-a-time kind of guy. In case you were wondering.”

Potter is annoyed — Draco knows that expression very well — but now he blushes. “What time can you fit me in your _busy_ schedule tomorrow?”

Draco makes a production of looking at his diary. “Eleven o’clock.”  

“Eleven o’clock then.” Potter stands and lingers. He seems to be waiting for Draco to see him out, so Draco rises, casually rearranging his robes over his bulging trouser region.

Outside his office, Draco’s eyes fall on the calendar — really, did Daphne have to put it right across his door? — and the force of his desire hits him like an anvil. Noticing the calendar, Potter blushes intensely, his irritation replaced by an awkwardness that is exceedingly ~~endearing~~ ridiculous _._ Draco doesn’t need to glance to where his hand rests to know that he just transfigured the wooden doorframe into metal. He prays Potter doesn’t notice and, with a hand lightly on his back, he guides him swiftly towards the exit. Potter’s body is warm under the layers of clothing, and Draco needs to go home right fucking now.

“We raised almost a thousand galleons today,” Potter says as if this excuses today’s attack on Draco’s sanity.

“Good to know. Now, run along, Potter, I’m a busy man.”

“Hermione thinks every Ministry department should do something similar.”

“Excellent idea. Perhaps I’ll run a kissing booth on Valentine’s Day.”

Potter pauses with his hand on the door handle. “I’m all for charity,” he says.

“Celebrities will still need to queue.” Draco smiles and realises with a jolt that _he’s flirting with Potter_.

“Perhaps they will.” Potter looks straight into his eyes and Draco is one second away from grabbing him and pushing him against the wall, but Potter murmurs a goodbye and strides down the corridor, leaving Draco to stare at the door handle Potter had been touching. It’s now a pom-pom.

 

 _Well_. Today was A Day, but Draco is finally home, his purchases waiting for him on his desk. He picks up the calendar, tears the wrapping with shaky hands and sits on his bed, forcing himself not to rush to July. Anticipation is already pooling in his gut.

January features Gawain Robards standing in front of a desk with a very large quill and a stack of papers hiding his privates, smiling like the cat that got the cream. Three older witches pose around artful flower arrangements in February. March is Weasley holding a towel over his pride and joy, hair and torso wet as if he’s just left the shower. Draco leafs through the calendar, lulled by the fact that July is still a few pages away so when he turns to May, the shock reduces him to breathlessness.

Apparently July isn’t the only month Potter’s figure graces. He shares May with Weasley. Potter’s in the foreground, holding _handcuffs_ , a knee raised as if he’s about to break into a run, which makes his arse curve deliciously, and Draco finally allows himself to ease a hand into his boxers and grab his suffering cock. Draco would give half the contents of his vault to become that leather thigh holster. With a finger he traces the curve of Potter’s arse on the paper while the other hand strokes his cock faster, and his eyes flutter and shut as he imagines bending Potter over his desk tomorrow morning and fucking him through it. Magic spills around him in tendrils and pulsing colours. He pictures his hands caressing Potter’s back, spreading open that lovely round arse and pushing himself inside and he can almost hear Potter moaning, those lips parted in sweet agony gasping Draco’s name, and then Draco’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes over his fist, his body shuddering.

It takes him several moments to collect himself. _Bloody hell_. He hasn’t had an orgasm like this since — well, since he was in school.

 

**Tuesday**

 

In the morning, an insistent pecking at his cheek wakes Draco up. He opens his eyes to see a chick hopping around his pillow, chirping madly. He sits up in alarm and after a thorough but bleary-eyed investigation he realises that in his sleep he transfigured the glass of water on his bedside table into this annoying, tiny creature. He’s filled with horror and takes the chick into his palm. The lust leaks must be getting worse if he’s progressed to changing objects into living beings.

He stares at the animal and considers what to do with it. It stares back. He could always transfigure it back into the glass but that’s almost like killing it; in fact some wizards do consider it murder. Transfiguring a living being back to an object is an ethical minefield and a large part of the N.E.W.T.s Transfiguration curriculum — well, it would have been if his seventh year hadn’t been hijacked by the Carrows and their fondness for torture. Professor McGonagall had had no choice but to teach her students the kind of transfigurations that were more useful for survival rather than debate philosophical issues in class, such as the right of transfigured and conjured beings to life.

He gets up and jumps into the shower and the stupid thing follows him in, fluttering its tiny wings under the spray. Draco names it Arthur.

When he returns to his bedroom, his breakfast tray is waiting for him along with today’s _Prophet_ and Draco sits back on his pillows, bites a piece of toast, and chokes.

‘AURORS STRIP FOR CHARITY’ says the headline and directs him to a pull-out supplement, where an article praising the innovative thinking of the Ministry features a wealth of backstage photos taken by the photographer himself in-between shoots: female Aurors in dressing gowns with glasses of wine having their makeup done; Robards gesturing broadly with another Senior Auror; a grinning Potter with a cloak scrunched up around his waist looking at something off camera that amuses him. His shoulders, chest and legs are bare, and although he’s covered more in this image than the ones in the calendar, Draco finds he can’t take his eyes off it. Draco’s mind helpfully reminds him that he’s seeing Potter _in the flesh_ in his workplace this very morning and he groans, lies back and wraps his hand around his stupid cock, tugging fiercely, angry with himself for letting Potter affect him so much.

It’s like being back at Hogwarts.

 

His house elf is willing to look after the bird, but Arthur himself has different ideas, biting furiously at their hands, and so Draco finds himself in his office with a chick that shouldn’t exist next to a cactus that also shouldn’t exist. At least he manages to change the shagpile and the doorframe back into their original state before his boss notices, stuffs the promising pom-pom on a shelf and busies himself with the paperwork, not that he can concentrate on it anyway.

Potter shows up at eleven sharp, his uniform unbuttoned over jeans and a green t-shirt. Draco wanked twice in the morning to prevent any further lust leaks. Sated, he welcomes Potter graciously and even gestures at one of the seats in front of his desk.

“What is _that_?” Potter asks as Arthur appears on top of the filing cabinet.

Draco gets up and takes him in his palms. “Nothing. Ignore him. He likes to explore.”

“Is this a pet? You do know owls eat baby chicks?”

Draco pales. He hasn’t considered that. He swallows hard and puts the chick next to his half-eaten biscuit where it can nibble on the crumbs.

Potter tilts his head and gives him a long look. “Never saw you as a man who’d buy a chick as a pet.”

“I didn’t _buy_ him — look, shall we start?”

Potter shrugs instead of replying and removes his uniform, revealing muscled, tanned arms. “Might as well be comfortable,” he says. Draco hates him.

An hour later, Potter is on his feet, yelling. “There was nothing wrong with the investigative procedure!”

Draco has been leaning on the filing cabinet, arms crossed, feeling quite turned on. He gazes at Potter, who’s standing too close, and he smiles at the sight of the flushed, furious face. Draco’s always enjoyed rattling him and today is no exception.

“But isn’t it true, Auror Potter, that you cast the Priori Incantatem on a wand that wasn’t the defendant’s?”

“I’ve told you he used a stolen wand three times! Can't you get it into your thick head?”

“That’s what the defense will ask,” Draco replies coolly, “and that’s certainly _not_ how you should reply.”

His admonishment calms Potter, but he doesn’t step back. “Sorry I yelled,” he says. “There's been a lot of talk recently about how the department keeps fucking up and it pisses me off. Sacrecour was back on the streets because of it.”

“I remember. But you caught him again.” Draco uses his softest voice, barely above a whisper. He’s not sure when he made the decision, perhaps ten minutes ago, perhaps yesterday, but he knows he simply must have Potter. “I think we need several meetings to work on your delivery.”

There’s a pause when Potter looks at his feet. “I’ve no idea how you do it.” He’s still standing close enough to touch.

“Do what?”

“How you—” Potter waves a hand towards Draco, “you’re always calm. You never lose your temper or raise your voice.”

Draco would like to feel a sense of pride about this but he knows the truth is different, deeply personal and much, _much_ grimmer. “Years of training, Potter. My whole upbringing was an exercise in keeping my composure at all times.” Draco won’t ever admit it but he longs for the fire in Potter’s manner, the freedom to completely let go. It’s an attitude alien to him, but he’s jealous of it nonetheless. Potter’s so _vivid_ that he’s almost vibrating in a different frequency and it doesn’t help Draco’s attraction to him one bit. “A useful skill for when a powerful Legilimens like the Dark Lord is around you, eager to Crucio the tiniest errant gesture,” he adds. Draco didn’t mean to say that, but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. Perhaps he’s learning to lose control a little.

Potter raises his eyes and meets Draco’s. There’s no sympathy in his eyes, not really, but a trace of understanding or compassion perhaps; and memories. Sometimes the past feels like the air around Draco: intangible but inescapable, always surrounding him, and his mistakes have never seemed greater than this very moment.

On the desk, Arthur peeps and breaks the spell. Draco breathes again.

“Can we stop for today?” Harry glances at the clock. “It’s lunchtime and I’m starving.”

“Sure. Same time tomorrow?”

“Well,” Harry takes a step back and pulls his robes from the back of the chair, “we could have lunch together if you want. I don’t like eating alone.”

Draco's heart starts pounding, but his voice is cool, indifferent even, when he says, “There’s a café round the corner that’s not half-bad,” and Summons his cloak.

 

**Wednesday**

 

Draco takes Arthur from the modified outer pocket of his robes and sits down to work on his notes, only for his mind to drift to yesterday’s lunch where Potter, the devil incarnate, launched into a description of his photoshoot, painting a vivid picture of how the cold air had felt on his skin while posing stark naked. These unsolicited details provoked yet another lust leak, resulting in Draco walking out of the café in flip-flops, and as if that wasn’t enough, running into the _Minister_ while wearing the aforementioned footwear. Draco had to wank thrice at home to make sure he wouldn’t be waking up next to any more poultry in the morning. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Potter was doing it intentionally; the intention being to make Draco lose his mind, as it was clearly happening.

Unless Potter _was_. Draco spends the next several minutes replaying their recent interactions in his head, remembers Potter glaring at him and his date at Ministry functions, and finally glances at the pom-pom next to his cactus on the shelf of his legal books. Draco has spent his years at the Ministry quashing any thought of Potter as a _possibility,_ but the idea that Potter might actually — He finds himself quietly stunned.

“Did you hear?” Daphne enters without knocking and sits on his desk, almost upsetting his tea cup.

“What is it now, Daphne?”

She takes Arthur into her palms and pets his head. Daphne’s made a fuss over the bird ever since she laid eyes on him. _Women_. “There’s a rumour that the photographer is auctioning prints from the Auror calendar. Not the published photos, but the ones that didn’t make the cut: the backstage ones, or the ones that were too risqué.” She lowers her voice. “Apparently, the Full Monty is on sale.”

Draco is interested despite himself. “What is the Full Monty?”

Daphne leans in and whispers. “The Full Monty is a full-frontal nude of the Saviour.” Draco’s breath hitches but Daphne pretends she hasn’t noticed. “It’ll go for an obscene amount of money, they say. I have a couple of hundred galleons to spare but I suspect it’ll go for triple that amount.”

“Can the photographer do that, though? Sell the prints without permission?” Draco asks, his mind already calculating how much gold he can withdraw from his vault on such short notice.

“Well, it’s all hush hush at the moment which _is_ suspicious, but the man claims it’s legal. It’s all in the contract, apparently. I suppose it never occurred to the Aurors that someone might profit from the castoffs.” She smiles at Draco, hops off his desk and leaves.

Twenty minutes later, Draco puts Arthur in his pocket and leaves his office.

“I’ve an errand to run, Daphne.”

“Of course you do,” she smirks. “ _Sir_.”

The studio is on a side street off Diagon Alley next to a pet shop and across from a second hand book shop. It’s a wet day and the cobblestones are glistening under his feet. Draco doesn’t see a crowd banging on the door asking for nudes, so he suspects the rumour hasn’t had a chance to make the rounds yet — unless of course Daphne is having him on, which doesn’t sound unlike her. Draco pauses at the door. He wonders if the Aurors have heard about this sale by now and how Potter is going to take the latest attack on his privacy. Draco’s had some time to think on the legal aspect of it on the way here and he’ll need to go over the contract to ascertain the legality of this sale. Arthur gives a peep as Draco’s standing there deliberating, and eventually, after looking both ways, Draco enters the studio.

 

Thirty minutes later, he’s about to turn the corner to Diagon Alley when he bumps into the very people he doesn’t want to see: Potter and Weasley.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Can’t I buy something from a pet shop without you Aurors getting your knickers in a twist?” Draco glances at Potter as he speaks. Potter’s eyes keep darting towards the studio.

“What did you buy?” Weasley asks, but Draco isn’t listening. Potter’s face is hard, his lips pursed. He doesn’t look pissed off. No, he looks unhappy and frustrated and _fed up_.

“What’s wrong, Potter?” Draco can’t stop the question that escapes his lips, but Weasley is still on his case.

“I asked what you’re doing in this street,” Weasley insists like a broken record.

Draco will forever be grateful to Arthur and silently vows to buy him as much bird feed as he can get his hands on. “I really don’t see how that is any of your business, Auror Weasley,” he drawls but opens his pocket to reveal Arthur and a small bag of a special feed he bought after he finished his transaction with the photographer. He smirks at Weasley’s startled look at the sight of the bird.

“It’s just coincidence, Ron,” Potter says, his eyes still darting behind Draco’s back. “Listen, Malfoy, I’ve got a case. Sort of. It’s personal. Anyway I’m not sure I’ll be able to make our meeting this morning.”

Draco tells himself he feels relief at this. “I understand, Potter. Send me an owl when — no, actually don’t. No owls.” With a finger he strokes Arthur’s head. “Just — stop by the office whenever you’re finished with your case.”

Potter nods, his mind clearly elsewhere, and he and Weasley head towards the studio, letting Draco finish his errands and return to the Ministry.

 

Draco shouldn’t feel guilty. He examined the photographer’s contract and knows that, legally, he’s in the clear. Whether Potter will see it that way if he ever finds out, he’s not sure. Draco doesn’t really know what possessed him to do such a thing, but he knows that by tomorrow the truth will be out — at least with regards to what happened to the Full Monty. The rest of the day trudges along with meetings with Gruger, more paperwork to complete and Daphne’s eternal smirks to put up with. When he’s alone in the office, he takes the photo from under a pile of papers and stares at it.

Potter doesn’t show up. Draco lingers in his office until past six and by then he can’t pretend he’s working anymore. Just as he’s shrugging his cloak on, a knock interrupts him and the door to his office opens.

“Sorry for barging in, your secretary isn’t here. Uh, I see you’re leaving.”

It’s Potter, and Draco stares at him, his blood heating up. He takes his cloak off immediately and gestures to a seat.

“Firewhisky?” he says as they sit across from each other and Potter nods. Draco Summons a bottle and two glasses, pours a shot in each and offers one to Potter. Arthur chirps and Potter gives him a small smile. The lamp casts a warm yellow light on his face.

Draco swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “Difficult case?”

Potter sips and unbuttons his collar with a sigh. “Sort of. I don’t know if you’ve heard…?”

“About the photographs? I did. Daphne is such a gossip.” Draco can’t take his eyes off Potter’s collarbone and his nether regions respond accordingly.

“So, uh, there was a photo of me that—” Potter’s blush is simply adorable. “Bertrand, the photographer, even gave it a name. The Full Monty. Because it’s — well, you _know_. I hoped to buy it before anyone else could get their hands on it, but by the time I got there, the picture and the roll of film had been sold.”

Draco gently pushes Arthur back from dipping his beak in his glass. “Did you track down the buyer?”

“It was impossible. Bertrand said it was some French bloke. We searched hotels, train stations, contacted the Department of International Magical Cooperation for records of French visitors, but no luck. It’s like he vanished.” He gives a guilty look to Draco. “Ron showed your picture to Bertrand. He was convinced you had something to do with it.”

Draco holds his breath. “Because you saw me there.”

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that the photographer didn’t identify you as the mystery buyer,” Potter smiles and sips his drink.

 _He didn’t because no one in their right mind would conduct such a transaction without wearing a glamour_ , Draco thinks as he refills their glasses with a nervous twist of his wand. “Perhaps the photo will resurface.”

“Yes, in a _newspaper_.” Potter’s voice is hard, his face twisted in bitterness.

“Maybe not. Maybe someone bought it just so it wouldn’t fall in the hands of the _Daily_ _Prophet._ ”

“Because that’s likely.” Potter’s getting angrier, the tell-tale flush creeping down his neck. “I mean, I get why Bertrand would do it. I'm not happy about it but, fair enough, he owned the photo and thought he could profit from it. But why would someone _buy_ it? It’s creepy at the very least.”

Draco is now sure that if Potter finds out, he’ll blow his lid. No more civil conversations and lunch dates and door handles accidentally transfigured into pom-poms. “You’re seriously asking why someone would pay money to see the Chosen Dong? Potter, you have rabid fans.”

“Don’t call it that.” Potter’s expression is halfway between irritation and amusement. “The Chosen _Dong_.” Amusement wins and he gives a low, not particularly humorous, chuckle. “Better not let Rita Skeeter hear you.”

Draco snorts, “You’re lucky I didn’t become a journalist.”

“No, instead you became the terror of the courts,” Potter smiles.

“Thank you,” Draco smiles back. The fire in his groin has moved to his chest and Draco doesn’t like it one bit. Erections he can deal with; this warm feeling he distrusts.

Potter runs a hand through his hair and gulps down the rest of his whisky. “So are we going to do it?”

“Excuse me?” Draco coughs.

“The testimony thing. That’s why I’m here.”

Draco puts his glass down with a brief pang of disappointment. Of course Potter is here for work.

It’s late and Draco feels the day’s fatigue wash over him. He unbuttons his collar and loosens his ponytail, letting his hair brush his shoulder. Raising his head, he sees Potter staring, face open, eyes soft and dark. A golden sheen spreads on the wooden floor, but Draco’s not sure if it’s coming from him this time.

“Let’s start then, Auror Potter.” Draco rises and walks around the desk. He leans on it with crossed arms, staring down at Potter. Behind him, Arthur scratches at a pile of papers. “You can start by telling the court the steps that led to the arrest of Sorrell Sacrecour.”

Some time later, Potter’s face is a beautiful red and Draco thinks that flushed Potter is possibly his favourite thing. He asks him, “If you don’t know the basic facts of the investigation, Potter, how on earth are we going to get a conviction?”

“I know the facts,” he seethes. “You’re making me confused on purpose.”

“Which is what the defense will try to do. With success, from what I can see.” This is a lie. There is no lawyer in the country who’ll question him as sharply as Draco has been examining him this evening.

“I need a break,” Potter says and rises. He paces around the room and rolls his shoulders. He even stretches his arms, making his t-shirt rise.

Draco can feel the lust pouring out of his body like a river. Fuck the testimony. The filing cabinet pops out of existence and is replaced by a ficus. His focus narrows to one thought: Potter might hate him tomorrow, but Draco still has tonight.

“How easily I can fluster you with one question,” he says softly. He pushes himself off the desk and advances.

Potter turns. “It wasn’t _one_ question.”

“Imagine what the defense will do to you,” Draco continues in the same soft tone, running his eyes down Potter’s body. The golden sheen of the floor brightens.

“I’m sure they won’t be nearly as hard on me as you are,” Potter says, voice pitched low.

The ficus grows.

Draco is now close enough to touch. “Oh, Potter. I can go a lot harder.”

Potter swallows and turns his head. He almost speaks, but stops, his gaze drawn by something, his face hardening. Draco turns and freezes.

Arthur has been biting and scratching and making a mess of Draco’s papers, and now he drags a photo with his beak across the desk.

There is silence for a moment.

Potter’s voice chills Draco to the bone. “You’ve been lying all this time. You’ve been lying to my face.” Potter looks at Draco in a way he hasn’t since that time they fought in a bathroom. With fury and _disgust_. The look hurts as much as it did then.

“It’s not what you think,” Draco says quickly. Inadequately.

“No? This isn’t a photograph of me that Bertrand Baggins-Aotea sold to you this morning around ten?”

 _When you put it that way_ …, Draco thinks.

Potter snatches the photo from the bird’s beak, making it stumble. “This isn’t the—?” He pauses as he takes a look at the photo and Draco feels his cheeks burn. He’s never been more mortified.

“This isn’t the Full Monty,” Potter says in the end.

Draco says nothing because the picture says everything. The photograph Potter holds in his hands is the one where he’s standing with a cloak around his waist, bright eyes wrinkled by a wide smile.

“A present,” Draco says, a little too fast. “It’s a Christmas present for Daphne. She’s such a fan.”

“I don’t think _she_ ’s the rabid fan,” Potter murmurs as he stares at his picture. Draco wants to snatch it from his hands and tear the stupid thing up. He’s been caught like a lovelorn schoolgirl and wishes he had the Full Monty here instead of this _embarrassment_. He glares at Arthur, who ignores him and lies in a nest of shredded paper.

“Boffington fell off the log he was standing on,” Potter remembers. “That’s what I was laughing at. He’d had too much beer and could hardly stand straight by the time he stood in front of the camera. Draco…?”

Any restraint Draco might have had disappears at the sound of his name. He grabs Potter and kisses him. Potter’s lips open up, sweet and warm, and Draco licks the firewhisky from Potter’s tongue. Potter’s strong arms wrap around Draco, pulling him tight, running down his back. They’re kissing breathlessly; devouring, desperate kisses that heat the deepest, darkest part of Draco. Potter’s mouth is soft, his cheeks stubbly, his body pliant in Draco’s arms. He feels tendrils of magic, Potter’s lust, wrap around his body like a dozen soft, exploring hands, making his skin tingle. His own leaking magic washes over Potter like a wave and Potter sighs and pulls back to kiss Draco’s neck. His fingers caress a blond strand. “I like your hair long,” he whispers and Draco, his chest fluttering, finds Potter’s lips again and kisses him harder. Potter responds enthusiastically, his hands buried in Draco’s head, messing up his hair. He presses his groin to Draco, who senses an impressive hard-on.

Draco can’t wait another _second_. He pulls Potter’s t-shirt up to wrap his lips around a nipple. Potter drops his head back and moans, and Draco sucks the nipple softly before he rises and pulls Potter’s t-shirt off. His glasses go with it and both fall on the desk, barely missing Arthur.

“So you didn’t buy the Full Monty?” Potter whispers, a crooked, dazed smile on his face as Draco fumbles with Potter’s flies.

“No,” Draco lies. He slides his hands inside Potter’s jeans and cups his arse, kneading it. He kisses Potter on the neck, the jaw, the eyes, open-mouthed sloppy kisses while Potter is pulling at Draco's robes.

“You,” Potter rasps, “I want to suck you.”

Draco is so hard he can’t bear it. He runs a finger over his buttons, murmuring an incantation and his robes and shirt fall on the floor. Potter smiles at the sight of half-naked Draco and rubs his stubble over Draco’s chest, licking his nipples and moving lower, tugging down Draco’s trousers and nuzzling his cock through his underwear. Draco is sure his legs won’t hold him much longer, especially when Potter pushes his boxers down to his thighs and licks the head of Draco’s cock with a slow, careful tongue. Draco grabs his messy hair and presses Potter’s face closer, the urgency coursing through his veins overriding every instinct. Potter obliges. He takes Draco’s cock deep in his mouth, working his tongue around the shaft, the head, the leaking slit. This is more heavenly than Draco expected and he groans, “Merlin, your mouth,” canting his hips forward into Potter’s swollen lips; the sight of him fucking Potter’s mouth is so indecent that he’s ready to come. He pushes Potter away.

“Let’s see it then,” he says, his voice throaty, almost belonging to someone else.

“See what?” Potter pants, his lips wet and bruised.

“The Chosen Dong. Strip.”

Potter likes to be bossed around, apparently; Draco makes a mental note. He wastes no time getting out of his jeans and boxers and Draco can’t believe he has the image of the calendar _live_ in front of him. The only thing missing is the grease. _Maybe next time_ , Draco thinks, and then his brain reminds him: _there won’t be a next time_. His desire burning through him, Draco comes closer and grabs the object of his fantasies, feeling the hefty, warm weight of Potter’s cock in his palm, stroking it slowly and enjoying the way Potter gasps, the breathy way he whispers words that make no sense.

“What is it, Potter?”

“Inside me,” Potter gasps, as Draco rubs a finger over the silky soft tip. “Fuck — _oh_! — fuck me.”

Draco releases Potter’s cock and conjures some lube on his fingers. “Turn around,” he says and Potter glances at him, his eyes large and dark and pleading. “Show me that beautiful arse, Potter, hurry up.”

Potter turns and grabs the desk, arching his back and Draco presses soft kisses on his skin while he works Potter open. Draco can feel their magic tangling, fighting, blending together and the room is slowly transforming around them; mute fireworks bursting over their heads, a priapic statue standing where his coat hanger used to be, tapestries covering previously bare walls, the cactus sprouting a large pink blossom that opens slowly just as Potter’s hole opens under Draco’s skilful, eager fingers.

“Now, Malfoy, I need you now,” Potter pleads, his elbows on the desk. He’s trembling and Draco is trembling and Arthur is possibly trembling or maybe it’s the whole room, and Draco removes his fingers, covers his aching cock in lube and pushes the head inside Potter.

“Fuck,” Draco says and sinks in one more inch. It’s too hot, too tight, too amazing. He has to stop for a moment and blink and try to find his breath again.

“Deeper, Malfoy,” Potter says and bucks his hips, sending spirals of pleasure up Draco’s spine.

“My, you’re eager,” Draco says and pushes himself further inside. He’s rewarded with a moan. “How you love it,” he breathes again.

“I love it,” Potter says. “It feels so good.”

Draco wraps his hand around Potter’s cock. He bites lightly at Potter's shoulder as he slides in and out, keeping a steady pace. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“It feels amazing,” Potter says. He breathes heavily and turns his head to Draco. “ _You_ feel amazing.”

Draco's whole body aches at the sound of these words.

“I love how your hair feels on my skin,” Potter pants and Draco lowers his head, allowing his hair to trail over Potter’s sweaty back. He fucks him hard, even as his legs are shuddering.

“Yes, Malfoy, don't stop. Harder,” Potter gasps.

“So demanding,” Draco says as he nudges Potter’s legs with his knee to open them more and buries himself deeper. “You have the best arse, Potter,” he says as he thrusts in faster, more erratically.

Draco has fucked other men before, but he’s never felt this wild, this close to what people call _abandon_. The idea that it’s _Potter_ of all people, tight and wet and pleading, _yes, yes, please don’t stop_ , the image of Potter falling apart under his cock is so heady that Draco thinks he’s losing his mind. He can’t believe it; he just can’t. “Look at you take it. Look at you take it so well,” he rasps.

“I’m close. _Please,_ Malfoy.”

“Say my …” Draco can barely get the words out. He allows himself to let go, to lose himself completely in the feeling of Potter’s arse around his cock and fucks him wildly, sweat dripping from his back.

“Draco,” Potter gasps and comes over Draco’s desk, “ _Draco_.” Hearing his name from Potter’s lips breaks Draco and he comes inside him with a blast, his arms gripping Potter, trying to hold himself up.

 

Sweat is cooling on their skin as they lean side by side on the desk, catching their breath.

“I’ve never had sex in the Ministry before,” Potter comments. “I bet _you_ have,” he glances sideways at Draco.

“How did you reach this stunningly inaccurate conclusion, Auror Potter?”

“You always bring your boyfriends to Ministry parties—”

“Again with the boyfriends.”

“—so I assumed maybe you fucked one of them in the loos.”

“I haven’t fucked anyone in the Ministry loos, Potter,” Draco assures him. He runs an appraising eye over Potter’s sweaty chest, his ribs, his thighs. The cock resting soft in a nest of dark hair. “But I wouldn’t mind fucking _you_ against a toilet wall.”

Potter smiles. “I’m game if you are.”

Draco wants this — he wants it _so_ much. Perhaps Potter won’t be too upset if he finds out Draco did indeed buy the Full Monty, too. Draco closes his eyes and decides to pretend that everything will be okay. “In the meantime, I have a perfectly good flat with a perfectly good bed for fucking.”

Potter stands. “First, let’s put your office back in order before Gruger has a heart attack with that statue.” He points at the statue’s humongous phallus, but Draco likes the look of it. In fact, he’s half-inclined to take it home. It reminds him of some of the older Malfoy heirlooms that were positively pagan and that Mother tucked away in the Manor’s attics.

“Finite Incantatem should do it, right?” Potter locates his wand and is ready to sweep the room.

A chirp interrupts them.

“Wait!” Draco says. He collects Arthur and leaves him on Daphne’s desk outside.

“Is he a magic chick?” Potter asks, surprised. “Did you conjure him?”

“Sort of. Now let’s fix the office. I want to take you home and fuck you in my bed.”

It’s still tonight, after all.

 

**Thursday**

 

When Draco wakes up, he slides to the empty pillow next to him and inhales. Potter’s scent tickles his nostrils. It wasn’t a dream. He and Potter had office sex and then they had bed sex and maybe this morning they’ll have shower sex. Or kitchen sex. Or—

Or Potter has already received the owl. He sits up and looks around.

“Potter?” No answer. “Harry?” he tries again.

Nothing. Putting on his dressing gown, Draco goes to the kitchen. No note.

Also, no Arthur. He’s not in the kitchen or the living room or any of his usual hiding places. Draco returns to his bedroom and notices a glass of water by the bedside table.

“ _Arthur_?”

The glass doesn’t respond. Draco picks it up and stares at it. He knows that accidental transfigurations don’t always last, but he’d assumed, seeing as the bird lasted for more than 36 hours—

“Arthur,” he says again, sitting heavily on his bed, feeling bereft.

“Why are you talking to the glass?” a voice says.

Potter is standing at the door of his bedroom in his coat. Something is jangling in his hand. “Borrowed your keys,” he says. “Went out to see the photographer.”

Draco puts the glass down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Potter says. He walks in the room, staring at Draco. “You see, I received a Confidential Delivery owl this morning with an early Christmas present. Care to guess what it was?”

“A comb?”

“No. It was the Full Monty _and_ the entire roll of film. It’d seem that the ‘French’ bloke is one of my rabid fans.”

“Well, you have many.”

So,” Potter paces the room, “I went to ask Bertrand a few more questions. I remember he’d been vague with the mystery buyer’s face, which was odd in itself. He’s a photographer; he pays attention to people’s faces and should’ve been able to provide a clearer description. Unless of course someone disguised their face with a Forget-Me glamour.”

“Maybe he’s a crap photographer. To be frank, I’m not impressed by his work.”

“So this time I asked him to elaborate on other aspects, such as the man’s build, the tone of voice… That sort of thing. Bertrand was very cooperative. He even mentioned that the buyer seemed quite familiar with legal terms.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Draco wishes his heart would stop pounding.

“Guess what Bertrand forgot to mention last time? He’d got the impression that the man carried a _pet_ in his pocket.”

“It’s all the rage these days, pocket-pets.”

“Bertrand is going back to New Zealand today. Apparently, he made enough money from the Full Monty to buy a house there.”

“New Zealand property is _ridiculously_ cheap.”

“So I thought to myself—” Now Potter approaches the bed and stands over Draco. Draco tries to decipher if Potter is enraged or simply pissed off and he jumps when Potter leans over him and places his hands on the headboard on either side of Draco. His breath is hot on Draco’s face. As far as intimidation methods go, Draco is turned on.

“I said to myself,” Potter continues, “who do I know, who has the same build that Bertrand described, is rich enough to spend that kind of money, knows the law inside out, probably speaks French, carries a pet in their pocket _and_ was in the area yesterday morning?”

“No one,” Draco says quickly. “No one fits that description.”

Potter’s lips brush his. “Why did you do it?”

Perhaps Potter wants to lull him into a false sense of security, but Draco kisses back. “Je ne sais pas pourquoi.”

Potter’s mouth is now tugging softly at Draco’s bottom lip. “I have no idea what you said but it sounds hot.”

Draco pulls back and looks at Potter. “Aren’t you angry? You sounded pretty pissed off at the mystery buyer yesterday. I thought — I was certain you’d hate me if you ever found out.”

“Probably.” Potter sits beside Draco. “I’d have been furious if I’d found out yesterday on my own. If I hadn’t received the owl…” He turns to Draco and shrugs. “I’d be convinced you were up to something, out to ridicule me.”

“We’re not fifteen anymore,” Draco says quietly.

Potter’s eyes turn contemplative. “No, we’re not.” He sighs. “I _am_ angry that you lied to me, though. I asked you outright. When we were kissing. You could have told me then.”

“I had other things on my mind at the time,” Draco smirks. His chest feels light, the relief almost making him dizzy. Perhaps Potter can understand why Draco had had to act so fast. When he viewed the contract and realised the sale was perfectly legal, Draco simply couldn’t leave without acquiring the print and negatives. Potter doesn’t know that Bertrand had received three different owls that morning — Merlin only knows from whom — and it was only Draco’s outbidding that saved the day. Draco likes this thought. _Saved the day_. He imagines Potter will be _very_ grateful when he hears of Draco’s quick-thinking, _heroic_ rescue of his nude. Draco’s mind starts picturing _how_ grateful...

“So you did it for me?” Potter asks, bringing him back to the present.

“Potter,” Draco huffs, “I did it for the Sacrecour case. Imagine how incensed you’d be if that photo leaked to the press. Your testimony would be a disaster.”

Potter’s hand travels on Draco’s thigh. “So that was your motive. To get Sacrecour to Azkaban.”

“It was a public service, nothing more,” Draco assures him. Potter’s hand is massaging his crotch and it’s difficult to breathe.

“Why were you talking to the glass?”

Draco doesn’t know how to break it to him. Reluctantly, he removes Potter’s hand from its lovely task and holds it gently. “This glass of water is Arthur.”

Potter touches Draco’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Arthur is in the kitchen. He came with me to the studio. Thought you wouldn’t mind. I put this glass here in the morning for you.” He smiles slyly. “You worked really hard last night.”

“Indeed,” Draco says, feeling so happy he could float to the ceiling. “I worked hard and I need a shower. Perhaps you can join me? Saves time if we shower together. It _is_ a workday.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Potter grins. “But,” he touches Draco’s chin and looks him in his eyes. “You won’t lie to me again. Promise.”

“I won’t. Now get in the shower and I’ll be straight there.”

This is also unfortunately a lie, _the very last one_ , Draco thinks, because he doesn’t go straight to the bathroom. First, he goes to the kitchen to make sure Arthur is indeed alive — he is, nibbling at some seeds on the counter — but after that, yes, he goes straight to where Potter is waiting, hopefully all soapy and wet.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello at [tumblr](http://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Full Monty (Cover)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989537) by [Cherie_Cherish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherie_Cherish/pseuds/Cherie_Cherish)




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